


Death's Second Self

by desoto_hia873



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6161686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desoto_hia873/pseuds/desoto_hia873
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike goes patrolling after Buffy's death in <i>The Gift</i> and meets someone he <i>really</i> wasn't expecting to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This is my entry for the [](http://adecadeofbuffy.livejournal.com/profile)[**adecadeofbuffy**](http://adecadeofbuffy.livejournal.com/) ficathon. Unusual for me: it has chapters (two are written; eventually, there will be a third) and smut. I have lost my porn-writing virginity, heh. The naughty bits are in Chapter 2. This part's clean.

Not so unusual for me: the plot centres around the events of _The Gift_. What is it with me and that episode? I have no idea.

::smooches:: to [](http://flurblewig.livejournal.com/profile)[**flurblewig**](http://flurblewig.livejournal.com/) and [](http://sunnyd-lite.livejournal.com/profile)[**sunnyd_lite**](http://sunnyd-lite.livejournal.com/) for betaing.

Title: Death's Second Self, Part 1 of 3  
Setting: BtVS S5, post- _The Gift_  
Word count: 1339 (this part)  
Rating: This part PG; R overall  
Disclaimer: Joss likes fanfic. [He said so.](http://www.livejournal.com/users/desoto_hia873/80744.html)

~*~

 

“Spike.”

Buffy. She was calling him. He pushed himself up onto his elbow and out of sleep, and saw her framed in the doorway of his crypt. Limned in the gold of the setting sun, she moved towards him, smiling. Soothing words of reassurance tumbled from her lips. He reached for her, yearning to pull her into his arms. He could feel her warmth, she was alive and unbroken, she was here. The nightmare hadn't happened. She hadn't jumped from the tower. She hadn't died from the plunge. She wasn’t...

“Spike?”

Wait now, something wasn’t right. He squinted; blonde hair turned to red, the figure grew a little taller, and the welcoming smile changed to a troubled expression. Bollocks. He dropped his arms, slumped back down onto the lid of the sarcophagus, and tried to gather up the fading fragments of his dream.

“Spike, are you okay? You didn’t answer my knock and you were… kinda mumbling to yourself when I came in.”

Willow’s voice buzzed around his head like a pestering gnat. Spike gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to swat her away. He didn’t want to be awake and aware in a world without Buffy, wanted to recede into the false comfort that Willow had interrupted. But it was too late—the last vestiges of the warm, happy, living Buffy images were dissolving like wet tissue paper in the rising tide of his consciousness.

She was gone, again.

“Um, Spike?” The tremulous query was followed by a light touch to his shoulder.

He drew a breath through the shroud of numbness that had surrounded him for the past two days. “Course I’m not okay,” he muttered, pulling himself out of reach. “Nothing’s okay. Do you even have to ask?”

“No, I guess not...” She sighed heavily and dropped her hand. “I mean, no. I know. I know it’s not okay.”

Spike turned his head towards her and cracked open an eyelid. He knew he didn’t look so great himself--the sun had come up not long after Buffy had... well, it’d come up and given him a few good scorches on his face and hands that hadn’t yet healed--but Willow looked more than a little worse for wear. There were dark shadows under her scarlet-rimmed eyes, her hair hung lifelessly around her face, and an air of bone-tiredness radiated from her that seemed to sap all of the energy out of the room.

“Not really in the mood for company, Red. What d’ya want?”

Her face took on a pleading expression.

“We... we need help patrolling. Anya’s in a cast, and Giles isn’t walking too well with all those stitches, and Tara’s at home with Dawn, and I’m still pretty tapped out magic-wise, and...”

Spike raised his hand to cut her off, hoping it would put at least one of them out of their misery.

“Please, Spike. We need you.”

The pleading was in danger of turning into wheedling. Oh, to hell with it. It was easier just to get up and do what she wanted than try to put her off. Spike pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the sarcophagus. He gave her a dark look, and growled, “I’m not going anywhere with that... that _thing_.”

“That thi... oh, the Buffybot? She’s, um... I mean, it’s still broken. It’s just me and Xander. And you. You’ll come--won’t you?”

Spike pointed towards the coat lying over the back of his armchair, and she hurried to pass it to him. He swung it over his shoulders, then made busy work of checking his pockets for stakes and smokes. Gratitude had replaced the pleading look and he couldn’t bear to look at her. She had no reason to be grateful to him--no one did. If he’d done what he was supposed to, Buffy would still be alive. He spun round and strode out the door, leaving her scurrying behind him to catch up.

They met Xander by the Anderson vault and began to make their way deeper into the cemetery. Xander glanced at him once with hollow eyes, then stared vaguely off into the distance. Willow tried to start a conversation once or twice before lapsing into silence. Spike lit a cigarette. An owl hooted in the distance. The only other sound was the rustling of their feet through the dry grass.

“How’s Dawn today, then?” Knowing what the Bit was going through was almost as hard as knowing Buffy was dead. The day after the night at the tower, she’d come to his crypt with eyes so swollen she could scarcely see and brought him some salve for his burns. The thought of her trying to make him feel better after he’d failed her so badly made him want to take a walk in the sun. But as much as he didn’t deserve her attention, he wouldn’t be the one to cause her further grief. She’d lost too many people already.

“She’s... well, not so good.” Willow gave him a look framed with despair. “She spent most of today lying in Buffy’s bed, crying. Tara stayed home tonight to try to get her to eat something. I- I didn’t know someone could lose so much weight in just a couple of days.” Spike’s chest tightened, and he gave a rock in his path a vicious kick. It flew into a nearby headstone and chipped the corner of it. Willow winced at the noise. “Maybe you could come by later and...”

She paused as Spike suddenly held up his hand, shushing her. Xander roused himself from his torpor and readied his stake. Spike cocked his head, listening, and tested the air.

“Vampire. Over there,” he said in a lowered voice. “Fledgling, I’ll wager. Can smell the fresh earth.” He broke into a jog, Willow and Xander at his heels.

The tang of newly turned soil grew stronger as they approached the back of the cemetery. Spike squinted and saw the dim outline of a figure darting between the marble grave markers. His brow furrowed--fledges were usually so focussed on finding their first meal that they wouldn’t have noticed a herd of rhinos behind them, but this one seemed to know it was being followed. And there was something about that scent...

“You and Xander head over there and then cut back towards the Templeman crypt. I’ll circle round this way, flush it towards you, and we’ll have it cornered.”

Willow nodded and pulled a large cross from under her coat, and the pair disappeared into the darkness. Spike moved off in the direction he had indicated, his boots nearly soundless on the packed dirt of the main path.

As he’d expected, the vampire sensed that its pursuers had split up, and it moved to the protection of the towering Templeman monument to consider its next move. In the shadow of a granite angel supplicating the heavens, Spike shook on his game face and drew a stake from his pocket. He crept closer, making sure to stay downwind, and watched the vampire disappear around the monument’s corner to where Willow and Xander should be waiting. Moments later, he heard Willow’s startled shriek and rolled his eyes. He’d told the silly bint his plan--what was she getting so worked up about? Not like she’d never seen a vampire before, for God’s sake. He put on a burst of speed and rounded the bend to find Willow and Xander frozen into place and staring at the snarling creature crouched in front of them.

A sudden gust of wind overpowered his senses with an aroma he never thought he’d experience again. He gasped, and the lithe figure spun round to face him, blonde hair whirling in its wake. The distorted face was at odds with the rest of what he knew beyond doubt to be her, and her lips parted into a fangy grin at the sight of his consternation. His stake fell from limp fingers and clattered to the ground.

“Buffy?”  



	2. Death's Second Self

Title: Death's Second Self, Part 2 of 3  
Setting: BtVS S5, post- _The Gift_  
Word count: 2003 (this part)  
Rating: R  
Written for .  
Disclaimer: Joss likes fanfic. [He said so.](http://www.livejournal.com/users/desoto_hia873/80744.html)

 _Massive_ hugs and smooches to Flurblewig for holding my hand through this.

~*~

“Buffy?”

Spike tore through the cemetery, zig-zagging through the monuments, frantically searching left and right as he went. Buffy had fled into the night, and by the time he’d gathered his wits after the shock of her appearance, she was no where to be seen. 

“Buffy! Come back, luv, please. It’s okay—I won’t hurt you. Would never hurt you.”

He cursed as he tripped over a tree root and forced himself to stop running. Had to calm down. Had to think. His hands were shaking, and he fumbled with his lighter and singed his fingertips when he tried to light a smoke.

Buffy. Here, now... how? Didn’t matter. _Buffy!_ Alive. Well, not alive. But not dead and buried and forever lost to him. His fingers trembled as he brought the cigarette to his lips. Had to admit, this wasn’t quite how he’d imagined her coming back. Probably not the way she’d have wanted it either, given the choice. He pushed the uncomfortable thought away. She was here, now—that’s what mattered. It was the only thing that mattered. She might be a vampire, but she was still Buffy. Had to find her, keep her close, keep her safe. Images of the horrified looks on Willow’s and Xander’s faces flitted across his mind—he’d have to make sure she stayed away from them. No telling what they might do. 

He wouldn’t fail her again, no matter who her enemies were this time. 

Just had to find her and reassure her that he meant her no harm, and then... anything, everything. Anything and everything were a damn sight better than the eternal nothing he’d been staring at an hour ago. The depression that had weighed him down for the past two days was dissipating like fog in the morning sun. He exhaled a plume of smoke towards the heavens and shook the tightness from his shoulders. It was going to be okay. Buffy was back and everything was going to be okay. He took another drag and set off at a more moderate pace, searching methodically until he picked up her trail again.

~*~

A half hour later, he still hadn’t caught up to her, though he’d discovered where she’d been: the crumpled body of the cemetery’s groundskeeper was lying next to the open door of his tool shed. Mr. Nesbit had picked the wrong evening to work late. Two long and jagged tears gaped in his neck; she’d bitten so deep that she’d nearly torn his throat wide open. He hadn’t been wrong about the newly risen slayer being hungry.

The sight of the ripped flesh combined with the faint residual aroma of Buffy gave his stomach a funny turn. Didn’t matter one whit to him that the man was dead, but it was... strange to think of Buffy feeding on him. He prodded the corpse with his toe, briefly wondering at his unease, then turned towards home. Looking at what was left of Mr. Nesbit made him hungry, and Buffy hadn’t left him a drop.

~*~

The door to his crypt was ajar, and he was fairly certain that Willow had closed it when they left. Spike tensed as he slid noiselessly into the shadow of the wall, inhaled deeply, and then relaxed with a smile. Buffy had come to him.

He placed his hand flat on the door and pushed it open. The influx of evening breeze made the candles she’d lit flicker. He scanned the room and found her standing in front of his refrigerator, holding an open container of blood and looking at him with yellow eyes. Her lips were still stained red from her encounter with Mr. Nesbit. Spike leaned against the doorframe and drank in the sight of her. 

“Welcome home, luv.”

Buffy gestured at the bottle in her hand and made a face. “God, how can you stand this stuff? It’s disgusting.” She put the jar back in the fridge with an expression of disdain and wiped her hand on her dress. She licked her lips, and an expression akin to ecstasy crossed her face as her eyes drifted closed. “The real thing...” She shuddered a little at the memory. Spike felt himself stiffen inside his jeans. 

“I’ve got to have more of that,” she said in a husky voice. Her eyes snapped open. “Why didn’t you tell me being a vampire felt so good?”

“Never asked, pet.”

“I probably wouldn’t have believed you, anyway. I was too busy with the do-gooding and the demon-slaying. But still,” she turned and shot him an accusing look, “you should have done this to me ages ago.” 

“Couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to.” Spike tapped his temple, crossing the room towards her. “Not with this trinket in my head.” He paused and regarded her thoughtfully, puzzled. “But now you mention it—who did turn you? Meet a vampire on your way through the portal that none of the rest of us could see?”

The accusation on Buffy’s face changed to bewilderment. “No.” She reached up and felt the ridges on her forehead. “That’s kind of weird, huh? No big sucking thing. Well, except for jumping off the tower and breaking half the bones in my body and dying—that definitely sucked." Her vampiric features smoothed back into her human countenance as she remembered. "In the way that really big owies suck, that is. It fucking _hurt_.”

Spike flinched, and his arousal began to ebb way. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I let you down. I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough.”

Buffy approached him and tipped her head to one side to peer up at him. “Aaaww, is poor Spikey feeling guilty the he couldn’t save Buffy and her little sister from the big, bad goddess?” She made a mock sympathy face, then turned away, laughing. “You should give that up. Guilt, I mean. It never does anyone any good.”

“She’s okay, you know.”

Buffy gave him a blank look. “Who?” 

“Dawn. Physically, I mean. Her wounds are still healing, but she’s going to be all right.” 

“Great. Swell.” She shrugged. “Whatever.”

Spike cast his eyes downwards again. “If only I could’ve...”

“Enough already.” Buffy turned back and slapped him on the cheek, hard. The force of the blow was enough to sting. “Listen to me. I told you, it’s better— _I’m_ better—this way. If dying was the price I had to pay to leave all that self-sacrificing angst and world-saving bullshit behind and finally get to be free, then it was worth it. Besides, I have a feeling that life on this side of the grave is going to be a whole lot more fun.” 

She gave him a wicked grin and whirled away with her arms outstretched, her skirt spinning around her. Watching her, Spike felt his spirits lift again—it had been so long since he’d seen her smile.

“I had a friend once with a great motto—one that I was just too stupid to use for myself.” She paused in mid-whirl and, accusing finger pointed forward, pretended to lecture someone. “Good slayers don’t act that way—it’s _wrong_.” She resumed her spin, and the next thing Spike knew, she was pressed up against him, hips swaying, her face so close to his that he could smell the blood on her breath. His erection throbbed back to life and his arms wrapped around her of their own accord.

“Want to know what it was?” She looked up at him, a coy expression on her pretty face. Spike nodded dumbly; Buffy was rocking her pelvis against him, and the teasing pressure against his swollen cock was robbing him of his capacity for coherent speech. Buffy walked her fingers slowly up his sleeve, one step for each word. 

“It was... want... take... have.”

Suddenly, she shifted in his arms, gripped his cheeks with the palms of her hands, and met his eyes with her own. 

“Want.”

She pulled his head down to hers with a strength that startled him and kissed him hard enough to leave bruises. She was warm from her recent meal, and the taste of her mouth was intoxicating. The gentle pressure of her hips against his became more insistent. All remaining traces of guilt were pushed from his mind as his senses were inundated with the scenttastefeel of Buffy and blood, and he was scarcely capable of rational thought. He gripped her tighter in his embrace and leaned deeper into the kiss when she suddenly stilled, pulled away, and forced him to look at her again.

“Take.” 

She placed both hands on his chest and sent him careening backwards into the still-open door, and it crashed shut under his weight. Before he could utter a sound or regain his balance, she rushed towards him, her mouth seeking his. Their tongues met and twined together; he could drink from her like this all night and never weary of it. He felt her face changing again, and her sharp teeth drew blood as they moved hungrily over his lips, nipping and pulling and devouring. Her hands seemed to be everywhere at once—fingers were stroking and tugging his hair, yanking his shirt up from his waistband, running over his stomach, unzipping his fly. She released him from the straightjacket confines of his jeans, and he gasped at the tightness of her hand gripping his shaft. His knees buckled, and he slid down into an ungainly heap at the base of the door.

Spike reached up and ripped Buffy’s dress open from the neck to the waist with a single downwards swipe. He pulled her down into his lap, pushed his face into the softness of her breasts, and pinched and suckled her hard nipples until she mewled and moaned in response. Her hand continued to stroke up and down his length, slick and slippery now, and the sensations became so intense that Spike feared that the moment would end too soon. 

Buffy’s hand abruptly left his cock and she pulled back from him. She tangled her fingers in his hair and slammed his head back into the door hard enough that he saw stars. When his vision cleared, she was kneeling astride him, pinning him in place with her gaze. They stared at each other for long seconds, suspended in arousal, panting but never blinking.

_“Have.”_

She lowered herself onto him, warm and soft and wet. Spike closed his eyes and abandoned himself to her. She began to gyrate, agonizingly slowly, each circle bringing him a just little farther inside of her. Then, without warning, she tipped her hips forward and sank down to engulf his full length, enveloping him, surrounding him, drowning him. All of him was inside of her, all of him was a part of her; there was nothing left of him that wasn’t hers. Muscles he didn’t know she had clenched around his cock, and she lifted herself off him only to ram down around him again, again, again, again, squeezing and growling and tightening with each plunge until the white sparks of orgasm spun beneath his eyelids, swirled down to his groin, and emptied into her. Buffy cried out, shuddered once more, and then fell against him, sweat-slick and limp.

~*~

Drowsing in and out of sleep, they lay on the floor, limbs tangled together. Buffy’s vampire visage melted away as she relaxed, and there, before him once again, was the face of the woman he loved. Spike drew her closer and was just drifting into deeper sleep when she stirred.

“You know, I did drink from a vampire once.” She yawned and looked at him through half-closed eyes. “When Dracula was in town. He offered and I drank. Then I died. Just not in the usual way that makes people rise. But I guess his blood was still in me, and the magic of the portal took it from there.”

Buffy stretched, rolled over onto her side, and gave a harsh little laugh. “I must remember to show Dawn my gratitude.” She yawned again. 

“Soon. Very soon.”


	3. Death's Second Self

Title: Death's Second Self, Part 3 of 3  
Setting: BtVS S5, post- _The Gift_  
Word count: 2197 (this part)  
Rating: PG-13  
Written for .  
Disclaimer: Joss likes fanfic. [He said so.](http://www.livejournal.com/users/desoto_hia873/80744.html)

Hugs and smooches to Flurblewig for making this better than it was.

~*~

“Buffy?”

Dawn’s timid voice penetrated the drowsy murk in which Spike was comfortably immersed and roused him to semi-consciousness. He opened his eyes with effort and reached for Buffy, who was sleeping next to him.

And found empty space.

He bolted upright, pulling the blanket from their makeshift bed about him and looking around in bewilderment. No Buffy. He glanced towards the window—it was still dark outside, but the softening hues of the sky indicated that sunrise wasn’t far off. Buffy must have woken and scarpered off to hunt; he’d been so deeply and post-coitally asleep that he hadn’t heard her leave.

“Spike?” Dawn crept a few more paces into the crypt, looking apprehensive. “Buffy?” 

“Shouldn’t be out at this hour, Bit.” Spike reached for a nearby pair of jeans and slipped them on, then turned to Dawn with a frown. “You know better than that—no telling what sort of monster you might run into.”

“I know, but I heard... they said...” Dawn’s voice faded into a strangled sob. Her face was puffy and blotchy from recent tears, and she shivered in her pyjamas and bare feet, looking small and frail. Spike picked up the discarded blanket and draped it over her shoulders. Willow had been right about her losing weight—she looked like she’d topple under the force of a light breeze.

“I... I couldn’t sleep, so I got up for a glass of milk, and I heard Willow and Xander talking to Giles. They said... they said they saw Buffy while they were on patrol, that she was...” she gulped, unable to finish the sentence. “They said you’d gone looking for her. Is she here?” She raised her eyes to his; the hope in them made his heart ache. “Please—please tell me she’s okay.”

Spike sat her down on the sarcophagus and pulled the blanket tighter around her.

“Steady now, pet. Everything’s going to be all right.” He rubbed her back, trying to generate some warmth and stop her shivering. Christ, it hurt seeing her like this. “I found her. She was here earlier. Don’t know where she’s gone, but I’m sure— ”

They both jumped as the door slammed behind them. 

“She’ll be back.” They turned to see Buffy smirking at them in her human face, her lips unnaturally red even in the candlelight. Dawn’s eyes widened; she made an indistinct noise in her throat and pressed herself against Spike.

“All that—” Buffy shot an appreciative glance towards Spike’s naked chest, “—exercise made me hungry. I went out to get a bite to eat.” She licked a few stray spots of blood off her fingers. “Not much to choose from, this time of night, but it filled a hole.”

“B-Buffy?” Dawn shot an anxious look at Spike. “Are you... Spike, is she...?”

“She’s, well, not quite the same, but she’s still Buffy, pet.”

“Dawnie,” Buffy cut in smoothly, moving towards Dawn with her arms outstretched. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Her smile broadened, and she pulled Dawn away from Spike, off the sarcophagus, and into an embrace. “I know I’m _very_ glad to see you.”

Dawn stood stiffly inside the circle of Buffy’s arms. She looked up at Spike over Buffy’s shoulder, relief and unease playing across her features in equal measures. Spike gave her an encouraging smile.

“There, there, Dawnie,” Buffy crooned. She stroked Dawn’s hair as she always had and leaned her cheek against the top of her head. “Don’t worry so much...”

She drew back, ran her fingertips lightly across Dawn’s cheek, and tugged the blanket down a little. 

“...it’ll only hurt for a second.” Her face changed and she plunged towards Dawn’s neck.

“Buffy, no!” Spike grabbed her by the shoulders and jerked her away. Dawn reeled backwards against the sarcophagus. “What do you think you’re doing? This is _Dawn_.”

“I know who she is,” Buffy grumbled, twisting out of his grasp. “What am I, blind? I told you there wasn’t much to eat this time of night. That little old lady walking her schnauzer didn’t even come close to filling me up.” 

She eyed Dawn hungrily and licked her lips. Dawn whimpered; her knees gave out, and she and her blanket slithered into a downy heap on the floor.

“Buffy,” Spike pleaded, stepping between them. “I know you’re hungry, know you’ve got to eat, but... but... It’s _Dawn_. She’s your sister. You love her. More than anything. You _died_ to protect her.”

“Well, then,” Buffy said, shrugging, “she owes me, doesn’t she?” She tried to dart around Spike, but he caught her and shoved her back again. Dawn disentangled herself from the blanket, scrabbled backwards, and crouched, cowering, behind the sarcophagus, her eyes huge and fearful.

“Buffy, luv, _please_ ,” Spike begged. This couldn’t be happening. Vampires and humans, not generally the best of friends, but... this was Dawn. Buffy wouldn’t hurt Dawn. Dawn was everything to her. Hadn’t she made him swear to protect her? “Buffy, you don’t want to do this.” 

Buffy eyed Spike thoughtfully. She let her human face reappear, leaned against the crypt wall, and began picking at her nails. “You’re right, Spike, I don't. It was just a joke—I didn’t think Dawnie’d take it so badly.” She gestured in exasperation. “I thought you’d at least get that I was kidding. Sheesh—what do you take me for?” She shot him an accusing look and then returned her attention to her nails.

Spike relaxed and ran his fingers through his hair. Just a joke, then. That was okay—not surprising that a new sense of humour was part of the package. 

“Hear that, Bit? She didn’t mean it. Told you everything’d be all right.” He reached for a t-shirt flung over the back of his armchair. “But, Christ, luv, you gave me a turn. Gotta give us some time to get used to the new you.” He pulled the t-shirt over his head, still talking. “There are some things that you just can’t—”

Dawn’s shriek cut him off in mid-sentence. Yanking the shirt down, he saw that Buffy was no longer in front of him—she’d taken advantage of his moment of inattention to grab Dawn and pin her against the wall behind the sarcophagus. Her head was lowered to Dawn’s neck. Dawn sagged in Buffy’s arms, her eyes half-closed and her face growing paler by the second.

With a roar, Spike sprang towards the sarcophagus and cleared it in a single leap. He threw out his arm as he landed; combined with the momentum from his jump, it was enough to knock Buffy several feet away. Spike caught Dawn as she fell and lowered her gently to the floor. 

He pressed her hand over the wound in her neck. “Keep your hand there and push down, hear? You have to stop the bleeding.” Dawn’s eyes were unfocussed, but she nodded and did as he said.

He turned to Buffy, who was sprawled on the floor, fingering a new lump on the side of her head, and licking Dawn’s blood from her teeth. Her hair tumbled wildly around her face, giving her a feral appearance. 

“What’s the matter, Spikey? Want to keep her all to yourself? Can’t say that I blame you—she is a sweet young thing. But—” She sprang to her feet with feline grace and connected a kick to Spike’s head that sent him hurtling into the corner of the sarcophagus. “—you can’t have her. She’s mine.” 

The impact left Spike dazed. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, grabbed the corner of the tomb, and staggered upright, still between Buffy and Dawn.

“I knew fresh blood was good, but blood spiced with fear—that kind of fear—is fucking _amazing_.” Buffy leaped forward and kicked out at him again. Her foot hit his ribcage with an audible crack, and he stumbled backwards, tripping over and flattening a spindly side table next to his armchair as he fell. 

“I’d offer to share her with you, but, well, not really in the mood. I want it all.”

Buffy turned back to face Dawn. Dawn tried to push herself upright and took a few wobbly steps towards the door, blood trickling through the fingers pressed against her neck. “Buffy, please, no, Buffy, it’s me. It’s _me_. Buffy, please, I love you, don’t do this!”

Ignoring the painful grating of broken ribs, Spike heaved himself up from the floor and tackled Buffy from behind, wrenching her away from Dawn. They skidded across the floor and ended in a tangled heap with Dawn safely out of reach. For now. Buffy swore and struggled to loosen Spike’s grip on her legs. She was even stronger as a vampire than she had been in life as a slayer—he wasn’t going to be able to keep her away from Dawn much longer.

“Give me a break here, lover. What’s one little girl to you? It’s not like you haven’t killed a hundred of them yourself.” Buffy twisted around and kneed Spike in the chin, breaking his grasp and scrambling to her feet. Spike stretched forwards— _fuck_ , that hurt his ribs—swiped at her ankles and brought her crashing to the floor again. 

“This one’s different,” he snarled, throwing his weight onto her legs. “It’s Dawn. No one hurts her. Understand?”

“Of course I know she’s different.” Buffy laughed. “The fact that she’s my sister? That’s the best part! Killing gardeners and wrinkly old biddies walking their dogs—not without its appeal, I’ll admit. But going after Dawn? That’s where the real fun is. I mean, c’mon—just look at her.” 

Spike looked. Dawn’s face was slack and wet with tears, the expression in her eyes a mixture of shock, anguish, and terror. She was breathing in short, ragged gasps, and the scent of her fear was overpowering. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d have revelled in her suffering and found her torment an aphrodisiac. But—and a part of him staggered at the realization that there was a ‘but’ to be had here at all—it didn’t work for him anymore. At least not with Dawn. _Never_ with Dawn.

“I finally get why vampires go after those who were closest to them first,” Buffy continued. “Strangers, they’re scared, yeah, but you just can’t get _that_ —” she gestured towards Dawn with her chin, “—unless they loved you before. I bet you did the same thing to your family, didn’t you?”

Spike froze. An old wound deep inside opened up, and he flinched with remembered pain. He looked at Buffy’s distorted face and saw another one, just as beloved and similarly misshapen, in its place; heard again the jeering, pitiless taunts in a voice that had once been tender and kind. He pressed his forehead against the cold stone floor, closed his eyes, and felt a fool. History damn well had a way of repeating itself. And he’d nearly gotten Dawn killed before seeing it.

Buffy wriggled one of her legs free, kicked out at him, rolled away, and sprang to her feet. In a trice, she covered the short distance between her and Dawn and stood behind her, holding the younger girl in a headlock. Spike climbed to his feet and approached them slowly, sliding one hand along the wall.

“Stay away, Spike,” Buffy warned, dragging Dawn backwards with her, “I’ll snap her neck before you—”

His fingers found the door’s handle and he yanked it towards him. The door flew open, bathing the two girls in the light of rising sun. Buffy shrieked and released Dawn in her haste to get away from the burning rays. Dawn crumpled to the floor. 

Spike charged through the sunbeam and caught Buffy, twisting her arm up behind her back and pinning her to the wall. He turned his head to the younger girl. “Dawn. Go. _Now_. Get your neck tended to." His voice was hoarse with renewed grief. “ _Go_. Don’t look back.” Dawn nodded, pushed herself up, and stumbled out the door.

Spike took tighter hold of Buffy and slammed her head against the wall until he felt her muscles go slack, then twisted her around to face him. Her head lolled to the side; she blinked slowly at him, barely conscious. He reached down, picked up one of the broken table legs, and pressed the splintered end to her breast. He closed his eyes, buried his nose in her hair, and breathed in her fragrance, filling himself with it until he felt he might burst. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Her scent was the only thing left of the woman he’d loved. He wouldn’t be able to hold on to that, either.

“I’m sorry, luv,” he whispered, “I can’t let you hurt her. Not now. Not ever.”

He pulled his head back and watched her bewilderment change to disbelief and then dismay, and drove the stake home.

“I made a promise to a lady.”

Her dust floated down over his hands, tiny motes glittering with reflected sunlight. He blew them off and watched them drift silently to the floor. Then he walked over to the door and closed it, returning his crypt to darkness.

She was gone, again.


End file.
